I'm Fine
by RainbowOfNight
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has a problem, and it's written all over his body in cuts and scars. No one has ever cared, or questioned his secrecy. Until now. What to do when the happiness you lost such a long time ago finally returns? Alfred is about to show him how good life could be.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is very special to me, because it deals with a battle I am currently fighting. That doesn't mean however that criticism is not welcome, or opinions on the story, good or bad. Flames, though, are not welcome. I hope you all enjoy reading. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

***Trigger Warning: Self harm***

* * *

><p>Arthur smiled as the blood trickled down his leg, leaving a crimson trail in its' wake. Crimson. Crimson was good, safe. It made him feel safe, and temporarily free of the thoughts and people that were branned into his brain. All that had gone wrong that day, all the idiotic pathetic things he'd done, the people he'd hurt, were receiving their payment. Maybe no one else could forgive him, but he could forgive himself, even if it was just for a little while, at least.<p>

_"See what you get for being an arse? For snapping at mum this morning when all she wanted was to ask what you wanted for breakfast? For spending five damn minutes trying to figure out the answer to that mathematics question? You kept the class waiting, Arthur. They have better things to do with their time then watch a fool like you fumble around for an answer that should be simple."_

He screamed at the little version of him that resided in his mind, watched as he flinched at every insult, every punch and kick. It hard to keep him contained. He may be weak, but he was strong enough to beat Arthur. Everyone was.

He surveyed the art on his legs with a slight smile. Little red and white lines , some straight and lined up perfectly, others crisscrossing like a violent bloody spiderweb, were scraped and carved on the upper parts of his legs. He ran his finger over a fresh cut and smeared the blood like paint on his skin.

It was wrong. It was the only thing that felt right.

"Arthur! You forgot to do the dishes! "

Francis. He swore and grabbed a roll of scotch tape from the clutter on his bedroom floor and ripped individual pieces. He placed them over his bleeding wounds and pulled up his black jeans hastily. Francis was the type to just walk in if he wasn't answered promptly.

He had started using scotch tape instead of bandages recently. He didn't have a job, and couldn't afford to keep buying boxes and boxes of bandaids for every time he needed them. Tape was cheaper, and it came in a larger quantity. It hurt more, but what was a little pain to keep his secret?

He raced down the stairs in his favorite hoody and flashed a slight smile at Francis cooking scrambled eggs on the stove.

"Bonjour, Arthur," Francis greeted, traces of his French accent sounding clearly. "Would you like some eggs? " His long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his blue eyes were very alert for seven in the morning. He wore the pink apron he always used to cook. Good old Francis.

"I suppose so. I'm afraid I'll have to be off to school soon though."

He smirked. "You would be amazed at how quickly I can cook. "

Arthur laughed. "Show me then. " He slid into a chair at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the sunrise. What had happened only minutes ago did not exist. It was all just a bad dream. He always told himself that. It was the truth, right? He felt fine. Nothing so morbid could have happened if he was doing something as normal as waiting for to eat his breakfast.

Francis was his adopted father. He had taken Arthur out of the system when he was only two years old. His husband had recently passed away from an infected wound just weeks before, and he was looking fir something to "Fill that hollow" in his chest. He was a good father, at least Arthur thought so. He had his frequent bouts of depression, and some mood swings, some of which had led to some less than pleasant instances between Arthur and him, but that was to be expected. He had lost the love of his life. Was he supposed to just pretend like it never happened? You had to forgive people for things like that. Human nature could be truly unpleasant at times. But that's what it was- nature. There was nothing to be done about it. It was better to not dwell on such things.

He ate his eggs eagerly. Francis could cook like no one he had ever known. His pastries were like ambrosia.

The clock read 7:12. He had to be out to the bus stop soon. He filled a cup full of steaming Earl Grey tea and drank it so fast that Francis watched in fascination.

"Mon dieu, I knew you liked tea, but you breathe it in like air. "

"Just like you breathe in your wine," he shot back.

He tossed his satchel onto his back and ran upstairs. He had almost forgotten his books. He spotted his Mathematics textbook still open on his bed from doing homework last night. He placed it in the bag and then paused. His hand shot out to grab a plastic tin of mints. PPopping open the cover, however, the glint of a pencil sharpener met his gaze. He tossed it into his bag as well. You never know when you might need it.


	2. Chapter 2

**I know this took forever, but it's long and I recently developed obsessions to a few more anime. *whispers* D gray man D gray man D gray man.**

**Also, I'm happy to say I no longer suffer from Self harm. I consider myself officially cured. There are still urges, but I can confidently say I will never do it again. **

**Stay strong guys. You are worth it, I promise. **

* * *

><p>Arthur hated school. Or perhaps hate was a bit too strong a word. Disliked was more accurate. It was like an aching sore on his brain some days, pulsing and halting pleasant thoughts and action in their tracks. With distractions like his music and his computer at home, he could forget about the unpleasant reality of his school life: he was completely alone. Francis had told him for years that he would eventually make some friends.<p>

"You just need to find the right group, " he told him. "You're very... mature for someone your age."

Mature wasn't the right description in Arthur's mind. Strange, or peculiar, were better fits for him. He had never really gotten along with his peers. He was usually very polite, and had only been picked on once or twice in grade school, and that had been years ago. He even made people laugh occasionally in class. His grades were on the higher sife of average, and he had a clean reputation. But somehow he was still without friends.

He'd wondered why a few times. Was it something about him that just pushed people away? He tried to be open to other people's interests, even when he didn't share them. Arthur had yet to meet someone who shared his own. Not many teenagers were interested in 19th century novels, or the (in his opinion, at least) underappreciated form of art that was Japanese anime. All of his hobbies and interestinterestinterest were simply very obscure . He did like to be alone, but not all the time, and it was a thorn in his side some days. At lunch he sat at whatever table was kind enough to have him, and spoke as little as possible. It wasn't like he was interested in what they were saying anyway.

Some might call it selfish or being too choosy. But it was just a fact that Arthur was an outcast, and those he did want to form a companionship with were simply not interested in him. Starting conversations was just so difficult, and they always end in an uncomfortable silence anyway. So he gave up trying. He was happy enough alone, as long as he wasn't surrounded by extroverts to show him how things could be.

He kept his head down as he walked into geometry that day. Other students were joking and chatting away around him. The teacher had yet to arrive.

Arthur took out his homework from his binder and stared at the blank paper with increasing dread. Homework was a large part of their grade. He couldn't understand why he couldn't remember to complete it. This was the third time in two months.

He wasn't in any clubs, and he didn't have a job keeping him away from home. In fact, he was lacking in things to do, and in the motivation to do them. He knew he needed to do his work; his grades were important to him. Francis didn't have the money as of now to send him to college, so Arthur was hoping for a scholarship or a miracle.

He could feel a knot in his throat and a pressure building in his chest. _No._ He couldn't cry now. That was not okay. It was okay to sit quietly and think, and do the work he had forgotten about. Crying in public was not okay.

He was pathetic. He couldn't even force himself to take ten minutes at home to do his homework. There was nothing standing in his way, he was just a loser in the making.

He breathed deeply. No, that wasn't true. He had to remember what he had read, what those professors and therapists online had wrote with sure knowledge, that this was just a bad time he was going through, that he was worth something, he just didn't see it right now. He would feel better soon, he always did.

But no matter how hard he thought, there was that lingering voice in his head that whispered that so many years of feeling this way, day after day, was not in fact, normal. Even during the times of peace, he knew the onslaught of chaotic mental warfare in his head would return. Something in that disturbed him.

But it would all be okay. Wouldn't it?

Geometry had ended, with the teacher glancing down at his paper with a barely hidden disappointment in her eyes. Arthur hated to see that in her. His grades were normally good, even if he did miss an assignment or two, but he hated to dissapoint anyone. Two out of three of his missed homework assignments were from Geometry, too. He was starting to worry a bit about his report card. What would Francis say if his grade for the class came out low? Grades were one of the few things he was strict about.

Now he was sitting in his study hall, staring out the window at the rain that had begun to fall, and the way it ran down the sidewalks like a minature river. It had been raining for a few hours, and there were whispers about possible flooring, what with the real river sitting with its polluted brownish water a few blocks away.

It worried Arthur too. Francis lived in a house just across the street from the river. He'd never seen it flood personally, but Francis had told him about a particularly bad one a few years before Arthur had had come into his life.

"The basement was like a water park gone wrong," he'd said. "All of my paints and paintings, gone! Even my old clothes I bought while visiting New York City were useless."

Francis had an interest in painting, and he was quite good at it. He specialized in people. The acyrilic face of Arthur at seven years old was hanging in Arthurs bedroom right now. It was surprising to the teen that Francis didn't make more money selling his work. But people just didn't seem to be interested in art around here.

The blonde Frenchman had figured out a few months ago that Arthur was trying out his artistic abilities himself. He had walked in on him struggling in a fierce battle with his paintbrush and the mess that had become his paper. It was supposed to be a city, but it leaned more toward looking like tree trunks.

Arthur knew it wasn't good, but Francis had smiled and said that it would take time, but he would find that it would get easier. Seeing the quality of his work, Arthur found it hard to believe he would even come close.

"Um, excuse me?"

He looked up quickly, surfacing from his thoughts. Studnets still chatted and scratched at their papers intently. An eager face he didn't know smiled innocently down at him, blond hair hanging somehow awkwardly just above his glasses.

"Uh, I was wondering if I could borrow a pencil?" The boy seemed nervous. Perhaps he had problems socializing too.

"Sure, " he replied, digging through his satchel for one of his spare pencils. "Here."

"Thanks. " The boy took it and nodded. "So... what are you working on? "

This made Arthur raise an eyebrow. Why did he care? They didn't even know each other. He looked around the room for anyone laughing or smirking. Something was off here. But he found no one. They were all oblivious to the situation.

"Just thinking."

"What about? " He had taken a seat in the empty desk opposite him, and leaned back in the chair, as if basking in the nonexistent sunlight streaming from the window.

"Nothing really." Things were getting awkward now. Arthur felt himself beginning to sweat. See, he thought, this is why you don't socialize. You're totally useless at it. Oh well, he would go away on his own soon.

"Do you wanna sit together at lunch? "

"Huh?" Arthur checked to see if he was kidding, but the boys face was friendly, but definitely serious. "Oh... Sure, if you want, I suppose."

"Cool! My name's Alfred, by the way. I'm new to the district." New kid. So that's why he hadn't seen him before. Most of the new kids he'd seen over the years were quiet and shy at first. This guy defied all reason.

At that moment the bell rang. Everyone raced to the door for lunch, but Arthur took his time with getting his books together. Was he supposed to wait for Alfred to go first? Should he just go and wait for him to follow?

Alfred made his own decision. He walked over and waited by the doorway. "Is the cafateria that big set of metal doors I saw on my way here?"

Arthur had his usual salad, while Alfred managed to eat two hamburger and a taco while talking nonstop about his old school in Idaho and his favorite comic books. Arthur watched in mild amazment as he finished the food without a single complaint about feeling sick.

"Too many trees and not enough people, " Alfred said. "I felt like a plane could fly right over that place and mistake it for just completely forest."

Arthur nodded.

"You don't say much." He looked down at Arthur's empty food tray. "Want me to take that?"

"That's Okay, I'll-" He had moved to take it himself, and had accidentally knocked it forward onto his lap.

Gatorade and ketchup now soaked and coated his jeans. "Bloody hell! " he swore loudly, and a few kids turned around to snicker in his direction.

"I have my gym clothes in my locker, " Alfred volunteered. "I"ll give them to you. You can change in the bathroom." He smiled like he had just said he'd saved someone's life.

There was one problem though. If Alfred's pants were shorts, then what was Arthur supposed to do? He couldn't let him see the scars, the raw and puffy wounds. There was no excuse that would save him. He imagined the hospital, the white rooms, his hands shaking as he was denied access to his sweet release.

No. He could never let that happen.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm so sorry if this chapter was boring, or dragged on unessesarily. My major flaw in qrotijg is adding too much detail and background. I went over it a few times, but I couldn't figure out a way to make things work like I wanted them too. From here on it should get more interesting and faster paced.<strong>

**England: Why do you do these things to me? **

**Me: Don't you complain. I'll complain back, and then things will get ugly. **

**England: Why you-**

***anime dust cloud forms***

**Review bubutton. Press it.**


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred ushered Arthur into the bathroom after throwing the rest of their half uneaten meals away. The bell would ring soon, and there was no time to finish them, much to Alfred's displeasure. He still had a hamburger left to eat.

"Everything is too fast paced here!" he complained, speed walking down the hall while the monitor rolled her eyes.

The bathroom was empty. The mirrors above the sinks were cloudy and smudged. Some even sported hairline cracks in the glass. The sinks themselves were rusted. Everyone complained about the state of decay of the bathroom, but the school was having budget cuts, so there was nothing to be done about it.

Alfred pushed him gently but insistingly toward a dented stall door (Arthur couldn't fathom just how that had happened) and handed him the wadded up pair of basketball shorts he'd retrieved from his locker.

"You have to hurry," he said, grabbing his cell phone from his pocket and checking the time. "We've only got a few minutes before next period."

Arthur nodded, his face a mask of calm. On the inside his heart was a galloping racehorse. How was he going to get out of this? Maybe he'd get lucky and Alfred wouldn't notice. He felt like laughing out loud at himself. In his dreams.

He looked around at the graffitied walls of the stall and sighed. There was nothing he could do. He would have to suffer through one of his worst nightmares. He considered commiting sucide. Alfred would never get the chance to hurt him by telling his secret, not if he was dead. He could pop a hundred pills and he would never have to feel that kind of pain. It would finally be over.

Did most people think about sucide so casually? He didn't know, but he couldn't imagine a life where he did not. The idea relieved Arthur, that all it would take was a single decision, a slice, a jump and a choice, and he would be gone. It was like an option that was always there, even if he couldn't use it. A secret only he knew, and it was all up to him. That was a lot of responsibility, but he liked it. He would make them sorry. Whoever "them" was a mystery even to his own mind, but he knew he hated them.

Arthur slipped his stained and soaked jeans and exchanged them for Alfred's shorts. They were an emerald green, his favorite colour, but they were at least a size too big. He had to hold them to his waist to keep them on. The scabbed and scarred skin of his legs was still visible. It looked like he'd taken up too much space there. There was barely any room to work any more in that area. He let the elastic of the shorts go and picked up his jeans again.

_They don't fit. This could work,_ he thought, hanging the shorts over the top of the door. _ "_Alfred! They're too big." he called.

There was the pause of pacing outside the door, and the pants were pulled down. "Really? They're a medium. What size are you?"

"Small, sometimes extra small." This conversation was starting to make him a little nervous. Any kind of talk involving his body did. It felt too... exposing somehow.

He put his own pants back on. He'd just have to deal with the stain. It wasn't as bad as he'd first thought anyway. His shirt was long enough to cover a good amount of it.

He unlocked the door and walked out as he heard the bell ring, and the clatter of something falling. The scraping of chairs echoed from the cafeteria. He nearly gasped out loud at what he saw in front of him.

Alfred had his leather satchel hanging from his hand, with the flap unbuttoned. Its contents were scattered all over the floor. Pencils, erasers, notebooks... the gleam of something silver caught his eye. Shit! He tried to looked inconspicuous.

"Sorry. It's just that I tried to pick it up for you, since we were about to leave, and I didn't realize ut was open and everything fell." Alfred laughed good-naturedly. "I promise I'll help you clean it all up." He began gathering smaller objects in his hands.

"That's alright! " Arthur forced a cheerful smile. He was uttterly scrwed if the fool looked to his right. "You just go to class. I'll get it."

He continued stuffing the satchel. "What are friends for? Sorry my gym shorts didn't fit ya. You're way too skinny though, Arthur. Come over to my place sometime and I'll feed you a few hamburgers. They're the food of royalty, you know."

"I doubt that." How was he so open with people? Why didn't he leave him be and just let him deal with his own problems like everyone else? That was people did. It was what they were meant to do. Why was this wanker so different? It angered Arthur. Didn't he know that being so innocent and kind would get him hurt?

A tap on his shoulder. Alfred.

"What?" It came out more bitterly than Arthur intended. He instantly felt bad. Why was he so cruel?

"You- This um, fell out." His eyes were dull, and it was the first time since Arthur had met him that Alfred's eyes seemed cold. Blue and cold as ice. He held out his palm to show him the bloodstained pencil sharpener blade resting innocently atop it.

Arthur wanted to cry. This was a dream, it couldn't be real. What was so harmful about a dream? No reason to cry when he would wake up soon. "Thank you," He whispered.

"Come home with me?" Alfred's happiness had drained from his voice. Arthur missed the laughter, he realized. He missed the opportunity to pretend, to play at being someone else. He felt the impending doom of hus current situation.

_You just gave him another thing to worry about. And he just arrived at school today. That was stressful enough, and now he had this to think about when he got home. You just gave him a burden to bear that's not even his own. Bastard. Go die. Stop thinking about it and do something already. _

God, he wanted to. But he was afraid. He was afraid of the pain, and of what came after. It was ironic. He was in so much pain now, yet he was afraid to do the one thing that would end it. He was pathetic. He may never have the courage to follow through with that big a decision.

Sometimes, latea t night, he felt like it was possible. Something always stopped him though. Self preservation? Maybe. But he wanted to die, not live. An hour later he would be thinking the opposite. It was all too confusing.

Arthur sat silently on the tile floor, staring the blade in Alfred's hand.

"Today is fine then, I guess? Your parents won't mind if you call them from my place? I'll even make you those burgers I promised."

He took the blade and dropped in a side pocket of his satchel. He didn't really care what Alfred was saying at this point. He was busy planning hsi own funeral. Not that anyone but Francis would show up. Even in death, he would be completely alone. But that was okay. Being alone was the smart way to live, after all. You couldn't get stabbed in the back, and didn't have to worry about maintaining friendships or relationships. No one could leave you or hurt you if they never got to know you. It may hurt at first, but after a while you became used to it. A stress free living.

He had messed up, badly. Alfred had called him a friend. It felt almost good at first, but he knew how things would end. He was in for a world of pain. And he didn't know if he could handle that again.

* * *

><p><strong>Arthur's way of thinking stems from some past events that will be revealed over the course of the story. <strong>

**About depression: Sometimes, depression isn't constant. It can come in spells that can last a few hours, a few days, or years for many different reasons. Arthur's form is very sporadic and therefore he is confused about his feelings, and wonders if it's normal to feel like that, seeing as these episodes tend to be short and all over the place. He has actually been depressed for years, but only with these type of incidents. "You'll get over it" is 90% of the time true for him, but in fact it is not at all normal for these epsiodes to return so frequently. You're not over it if you forget about ut for a while and then are mentally tormented by depression a few hours later, no matter what people may tell you. It feels horrible, and you have every right to ask for help if you're feeling like this. **


End file.
